


DAO44: Swollen

by Rhion



Series: A Murder of Crows [2]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age Awakening, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Game, kmeme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 15:05:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9390242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhion/pseuds/Rhion
Summary: Gray Wardens weren't supposed to get pregnant. Well, she did. And it was Zevran's fault. Fluffiness. Zev/F!Surana.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for a KMEME prompt back in late 2010 or early 2011. Could tie into [A Murder of Crows](http://archiveofourown.org/works/532899/chapters/945585), though originally I didn't intend for this to be the guaranteed post-game ending, it can likely be considered as such. I did a bit of fly by the seat updating on it/expanding a bit here or there, so that it more closely lines up with my various headcanons/backstories etc, since most of my DAO stuff has some connection a la stupid multiverse. Beta'd and gone over (other than what I added today) by Janni, bellaknoti, and various others going over it over the years in my GoogleDocs folder where it's sat. Any fubars are likely confined to the bits of new I added.

Lahar awoke, uncomfortable and overheated. At least she wasn't throwing up this time. Alistair had _sworn_ that this wasn't possible, or at the very least highly _unlikely_ and she had believed the big buffoon. So now she was as round as a globe, eleven months pregnant, resolutely nauseous for an hour every morning – despite Wynne's assurances that that usually passed in a few months after conception – and felt ungainly. In spite of the uncommon length of her pregnancy, Velanna had remarked that she’d heard that some Dalish women carried as long as fourteen months, but that in her experience nine to ten was more common. That was only some slight comfort to counter the extreme awkwardness that was her ever movement by this point. Plus as an additional bonus, she had been banned from using magic, as there was some risk to the babe from being a Warden, a mage, and so slight, the others overseeing her pregnancy decided that any stress to her body was to be avoided...and Lahar would agree similarly if it was a patient in the same predicament as she was in, but chafed and disagreed since it was being applied to _herself_ instead of some nebulous, theoretical patient. 

Struggling from her bed, in that weird half-roll, half sit-up that she had to use to free herself from a prone position, Lahar grunted with effort. Zevran had disappeared some time after their arrival at the Vigil, but had promised he would return as soon as he was able. However, that was more than nine months ago, and as Lahar had to rudely face every day with a sickness to her belly – that had also eventually grew -- she had no one else to depend on. If he had been there, Lahar was sure that he would've helped. As it was, she refused to admit that she was lonely and missed him.

She missed his warm hands and the sound of his laughter, the whiskey burn timber of his accent and the way his lids drooped just so when he was planning something. And she wasn't entirely sure at this point if he was coming back. There had been a single letter, and Lahar had pieced together that he was in trouble, but her duties precluded her going to find him, to help him, as she would under any other circumstance. That and the unwieldy girth that encompassed her middle, of course. If it hadn’t been for that, she would have raged across the sea and torn Antiva down to make sure he was alright.

Toeing her blue, rabbit fur lined slippers on, Lahar sighed, looking to her opened window that faced to the north, “Please, come home. I'll even tell you how silly I am, that I miss you so, and you can laugh at me, and I promise I won't even yell at you for making me hate the smell of roast chicken and love the smell of pickled cabbage.”

XXX 

Zevran had commandeered two horses from the palace in Denerim, not even taking the time to rest. Alistair had come to a kind of forgiveness for Lahar's sparing of Loghain's life, and he had readily allowed the Antivan to take all that he needed to reach Vigil's Keep in a timely fashion. There had even been an offer of an armed escort, but Zevran had scoffed, not wanting to be slowed down. Nine months and three weeks, two days and – Zevran stopped himself from calculating the exact length of time he had been gone. It was just too much. 

A small part of him had thought to stay in Antiva, to take over the Guild, to tuck Lahar into a safe lock-box of memory. In fact the urge had been strong when his hands had been painted in the blood of the second most powerful Crow Master in Antiva. It would have been easy. But, he had gotten used to the weight of a frigid body nestled close to him siphoning his body heat, to Lahar's hand or knee or elbow wedged somewhere uncomfortable in the morning. He’d been able to fall into a deep sleep without worry and accustomed to awaken in the night with someone trusting and small plastered to him as though he were nothing more than a well loved pillow or stuffed toy.

He had lasted two months as the only man who stood at the Grand Guildmaster's back, and then the Antivan had found himself purchasing one of those varied contracts that the Guild offered. It was similar to the one a Crow by the name of Trystan had taken near a decade ago -- to marry and sire several children on a noblewoman -- that had been put forth by the woman's father. Through indirect channels Zevran put it out, and Guildmaster Alba had set her seal of approval on it, never suspecting the person who would actually take the contract was the very same who offered it. This subterfuge was unheard of in the Guild, not because it was impossible, but because it went counter to all the training and programming Crows received. If Guildmaster Alba ever suspected, the practice would be banned outright in the future, sealing off a loophole and exit that a cunning Crow could take to some measure of freedom. It was, in fact, very similar to the job Alistair had charged him with, that...truly he hadn’t been fulfilling. He had a distressing habit of that the last few years. 

And so Zevran sealed a deal with the Guild, as he was the one who purchased the rights to offer the contract to his cells, and then offered his own services – by never allowing those who served him know of the contract’s existence. He had outbid everyone simply because no one else made a bid to counter his. The Guildmaster had no choice but to accept, sending Zevran on his way. He was thousands of sovereigns short the vast wealth that had been at his disposal prior to all the backroom deals and bribes necessary to get the contract to where it needed to be, as well as the stupendous fee that would go directly to the Guild that could have - if he hadn’t made a bid of handing over the entire contract’s profits - theoretically (re)claimed, but it was worth it in its own way. Besides, there was more money than he knew what to do with personally sitting in banks, businesses, and the like, breeding interest and profit like unattended rabbits. There was no reason to begrudge a few thousand sovereigns to the Guild as a result.

Reaching into the pouch at his hip, he pulled another vial free, ignoring the steady drizzle that worked its way past the hood of his cloak. The potion was a stimulant, powerful and addictive, but it would allow him to drive on through another night. He had not many more miles to go before attaining Vigil's Keep and would be damned if he were going to sleep in a noisome inn or on the road. Meditation was all the Crow Master had allowed himself thus far, at night mostly, tied to his saddle on the off chance he actually did wind up drowsing, since setting foot in Ferelden. A week or two of hard riding through the ugly, late autumn weather that did its best to slow him at all turns, and no actual sleep were showing in the faint tremble in his hands and the way his left eye kept twitching when he wasn't paying attention. 

Raising himself in the stirrups, stretching his shoulders and shoving the hood back, giving up the minor protection, Zevran consulted the cloud covered heavens using the moon as his guide along with the few other celestial bodies he could see. Soon, it would be time to switch mounts again; these two had been run almost into lameness, as had the first two sets he had obtained with the King's Warrant. Zevran hated to abuse good horseflesh so, but knew that with rest, good food, and a healer's attention the horses would recover while Zevran couldn't recover until he was ensconced in bed with his marble and alabaster lover.

XXX

The Keep looked as if it had survived a wild battle, and the reports Zevran had heard in Antiva told him that it was a hard won fight. It had left Amaranthine to burn to ashes, a decision that Zevran well knew had been made by Lahar and would be unpopular. If she hadn't been the Hero of Ferelden, his Warden would surely have been strung up for such a crime. But gazing at walls that still bore heavy scars, Zevran was glad she had let the city fall rather than abandon the only Warden bastion this side of Orlais. No matter that having to dock in Denerim made a four day trek into one that was weeks long. 

Guards eyed him suspiciously as he approached the gate and called him to a halt when he was near enough. “Declare yourself, stranger.”

Zevran forced himself not to sway in the saddle from fatigue. “I have the King's Warrant. Allow me to pass.”

“I don't know you, ser,” one answered while nodding to the other guard who stood at the gate, waving the soldier forward to inspect Zevran and his mounts. “And you sound foreign, so I doubt you've a writ from the King.”

It was a near thing in his tired state, but Zevran bit back a scathing retort, “Then I shall show it to you, my good man. It is on my person, so – if I may?” He pinned them both with a mild stare, brow arched, hand hovering outside his cloak, “I would take it out, but there seems to be a bowman up there who has drawn a bead on me. So, please, if you would be so good as to allow me to show you the Warrant, I would be much obliged.”

The guard who had been speaking so far waved a hand, motioning for the hidden archer to stand down, “Out with it then and give it to Owyn.”

Now would usually be the time Zevran engaged them in idle conversation, but he had no energy to do so. He merely withdrew the messenger's roll, opening it so that he could pull the thick parchment free, then passed it to Owyn. The soldier took it back to the first, who gave it a cursory look as if he were ready to dismiss it out of hand, then did a double take, rereading it with greater care. 

Startled eyes regarded him from under the helm, “Let him pass. I'm sorry, Ser Arainai, things have been hard of late. Forgive my rudeness.”

“It is alright, my good man,” leaning down to snatch Alistair's letter back. “Even in Antiva I heard of darkspawn battles for the Keep.”

So saying, Zevran nudged his mount to enter the Keep, ignoring the stableboys’ offers to help him dismount. Waving them off, Zevran swung stiff legs free, landing with barely a wobble. Then, he grabbed his saddle bags stuffed with bank and land writs, and the more important contracts that he was unwilling to send via courier. That was all the care he could give to the mounts, allowing the stableboys to do their jobs as they should. 

Slipping to a servants’ entrance, Zevran moved through the Vigil like a shadow, taking the inner corridors that were reserved for servants so as to not be stopped by anyone with questions. Servants only would glance at the make of his clothes and body language, then ignore him once he was identified as “money.” They probably suspected he was on his way to some tryst with a normal resident, weapons notwithstanding, as anyone not a servant was armed to the teeth. And no doubt they had weapons of their own secreted on their persons; people who had so recently survived sieges tended to do such things. A wise thing that, the Crow Master figured. Zevran smirked, thinking they were not far from the truth anyway.

XXX

Rubbing at the child that was restlessly kicking her insides, Lahar spoke with Nathaniel, “You say you have news?”

“Yes, from some of my old contacts in the Marches,” nodding, clasping hands behind his back in a loose parade rest. 

The Howe had worked hard to become Second. Lahar still denied him, giving the honour to Sigrun as a temporary assignment because she needed to hang on to the hope that Zevran would return and take the position back up. Even so, Nathaniel was very capable and was relied upon for his diplomacy with the nobles who were uncomfortable with an elven mage as Arlessa of Amaranthine.

Pouring herself a cup of ginger and raspberry leaf tea, Lahar leaned back in the chair she had begun to favour over the usual seat at her desk. The heavily carved wooden chair was piled with several cushions to support her back and arms, granting some small relief to her discomfort. “And what have you heard then?”

“There was a Guild war it seems,” shifting with obvious discomfort. “The exact number of Crow Masters killed is uncertain, maybe as many as thirty or as few as five or six, but it’s the deaths of no fewer than three regional Guildmasters that have been confirmed, with five more possibly lost or gone to ground.” A shudder was repressed to not much more than a violent twitch at the thought. “Even at the smallest possible number, that amount of power redistribution, is unheard of, as far as my - admittedly, somewhat limited comparatively - knowledge of Guild history is. Details are sketchy at best, Commander. But, they all still point to a major shift in power with a new First Master having wrested control.” The Howe must have seen her puzzled expression as he explained, filling in some of the gaps in nuance that Zevran had never educated her on. “The First Master is someone who is only slightly less influential than the Grand Guildmaster herself, and it’s actually rare that there’s an actual Grand Guildmaster, since electing one calls for at least half the Guildmasters of Thedas to gather and elect a Grand Guildmaster...while the Council of Crow Masters can elect Guildmasters, and demand a First Master be selected from a few individuals put forward. It’s not unlike a Landsmeet on a scale large enough to represent every major portion of Thedas, with rules even more complex to limit upheaval. The pair rule over the many regional Guildmasters - city or province, anywhere that has a population large enough to support many cells of Crows under the control of at least a dozen Crow Masters. Just as a Guildmaster would outrank Crow Masters, or how Crow Masters outrank Master Crows, who in turn stand above Crows, trainees, apprentices, First Master and Grand Guildmaster will outrank each and every one of those.” 

The information jogged a memory loose, information that Nathaniel didn’t know specifically, like the fact that it had been since the Exalted March to free Antiva of the Qun’ari that there had last been a Grand Guildmaster and First Master. Aspiring Crows thinking to elevate themselves always found themselves dead before being elected, since Guildmasters didn’t like the idea of any singular person having power over them - a conclave or gathering of multiple individuals to pool resources and power, well, Guildmasters might not like it, but accepted and understood the right of might that came from combining many. 

Howe continued, unaware of Lahar’s thoughts, “The Guildmasters often wield almost autonomous power in their assigned placements,” which was somewhat similar to where her mind had wandered, “unless it’s a place like Val Royeaux or Minrathous, where there’s so many Crow Masters overseeing so many cells, that more than one Guildmaster is required to maintain order, loyalty to the Guild, and balance.”

“And how old is this information?” gripping her cup tightly, Lahar felt a tingle of power pushing to escape her tight control, and not because she wished to warm the contents, rather, her power wished to lash out, vent, just enough to express and release some expression of her stress and worry. “And do you have a name for this First Master?”

“Perhaps three months Commander. The news that comes from before then put Zevran at the forefront of the war,” Nathaniel could no longer hold her gaze and stared down at his feet. “If he kept up the pressure and maintained his momentum, I would guess he is the new First in the Guild. It...seems as if he may be staying. The Guild wouldn't be likely let him go if he were that powerful. Crow Masters never leave Antiva proper unless under direct order of the nearest Guildmaster to establish new Crow outposts. And I’ve never heard of a First Master leaving before.”

Now the spell did escape, and her tea froze, the cup shattering so she only held the handle in her fingers. “Nathaniel,” Lahar's voice -- usually a cool, relaxed thing -- was frigid, a throw back to days in the Blight. “How long would it take you to travel to Antiva and find out for certain if Zevran has taken that position?”

“If I were to find a ship in Amaranthine, a month’s travel with good weather to Antiva City, possibly a little less, another month, maybe two to find him, and then return? But not this late in the year, storms would make it impossible. I would have to go to Denerim first, which I can do that now, no matter how rough the season, then it’ll be a wait until spring, or, if we’re impossibly lucky and there’s a last break of decent weather before winter and its storms fully arrive, and I find a suicidal captain willing to risk it. If that happened, spring or right before winter, sailing around the peninsula of Amaranthine, that tacks on two to three weeks if the weather’s even remotely cooperative, or as much as five, as we’d have to hug the coasts of Ferelden, then the islands of Brandel’s Reach in case of being swamped or taken down by storms.” Wincing, disheartened, Nathaniel still soldiered on, listing reasons that if they weren’t true, Lahar would curse as excuses, “The port at Amaranthine hasn't been rebuilt yet, and there are no deep water vessels capable of carrying me that far. Commander,” the Howe looked as if he wished to lay a comforting hand on her shoulder as he came closer, instead gently removing the shards of broken porcelain from her lap, “if you need me to do this, I will. But I don't think it's wise .”

“No, you're right,” barely stopping herself from snapping. “It will take less time to simply wait for fresh news. Thank you, and please do keep your ears open for more.”

The dismissal clear, Lahar put aside the teacup's handle as if it were an utterly normal action. Tears begged to break free, and her child's kicking increased as if sensing her vast distress. Lahar was only able to hold on until the sound of Nathaniel’s leaving, door shutting with a minor thud, and then the moisture welled, painfully tearing at her tear ducts and even the blood that flowed so sluggishly froze to her face quickly. Curling protectively around her stomach, Lahar squeezed her and Zevran's child, looking for the only comfort she could find. 

This was how Zevran found her -- seated in a massive chair, covered by a huge blanket, wrapped around her middle as if clutching at some gaping gut wound.

XXX

He had searched her office for the the Warden Commander, which at this time of day was where she usually was, then her room to see if her gear was there, thinking that possibly she was out on patrol. But no, her battle robes were still draped neatly in the armoire with the staff he had carved for her with his own hands leaning against it, so she must be in the keep proper, and furthermore, she must be nearby. There was one last place she could be -- the lady's solar, where she retired to read, which was two doors down from their room. 

Dropping his saddlebags beside their bed, Zevran tossed his cloak away, no longer needing it, taking only enough time to drag fingers through his hair to make himself some semblance of presentable before heading to the solar. No one was in the hall, thankfully, and Zevran listened at the door a moment, hearing nothing. But the scent of ice and ozone revealed itself after a careful sniff, alerting Zevran that yes, his lady Warden was inside. Cracking the door open, Zevran eased it carefully wider, not wanting Lahar to know of his presence so he could surprise her.

Slipping inside, Zevran saw Lahar hunched forward, staring at the ground, frozen blood and tears on her pale face. 

Alarmed, all thoughts of happy reunions gone from his mind, Zevran raced to her side, grabbing Lahar, attempting to haul her upright, ready to search her for wounds. “ _Querida?!_ What is wrong?” 

“Zev...?” disbelief painting her face, frozen tears clinging to white cheeks. “You...you can't be here. You're in Antiva. Begone, demon, I'll not sell my soul to you.”

Grasping her shoulders, Zevran gave her a shake, “ _Querida_ , what is wrong? Why do you cry? Are you wounded?” Eyes skipped over her body, the blanket still bunched up between them, but he saw no blood other than from her eyes, and smelled none besides that, “Why are you in such a state? You truly believe I would remain in Antiva rather than return to you?”

“Begone, demon!” Lahar shoved him away, saying it again, and Zevran stumbled backwards. She swayed dangerously before gathering herself to stand firm, hands held out readying to cast, “I will banish you myself if I must. You'll have nothing from me.”

Backing away slowly, Zevran held his hands up, offering no threat, “ _Querida, amora,_ Lahar, listen to me. I am no demon here to steal your life essence. A moment, please, calm yourself. Talk to me.”

The mage shook her head, hair wild and loose around her shoulders, “You wear a face that you're not fit to, demon. You'll not fool me with that face, that voice, that touch. Zevran is in Antiva and bound never to return.”

“Lahar, remember when I discovered Emille?” hastily thinking of things that only they would know. “You were speaking with him, and he glowed blue sitting beside you near the edge of a stream. I watched for some time, not sure of what demon or spirit was there and why. But I knew him. Remember when I told you that it was I who was sent to kill him? A young Master Crow I was then, sent to eliminate a rogue Master Crow that had fled to a Chantry in Antiva's countryside. That was the same day you were taken by the Templars to the Circle Tower here in Ferelden.”

Lahar hesitated, “Zev?”

“Yes, Lahar,” eyes not straying from her icy gray ones. “I came back from Antiva. I told you I would. Did you truly believe I would not keep my promise?”

“You look different,” taking a small step closer, hanging onto the comfort of the heavy blanket draped and bunched around her tiny frame. “If you were a demon, you'd look exactly the same as how I’d remember.”

Ruefully Zevran ran a thumb along his jaw, tracing the vicious scar that traveled the length of the bone from the corner near his ear to the center of his chin. “Crow Masters are a dangerous lot.”

“You look...younger,” eyes narrowed to slits. 

Shrugging, “Blood mages have their benefits. The one Grandmaster Alba offered me the services of thought it a wise decision to lengthen my lifespan in exchange for not replacing her during my ah...forceful reshaping of the power structure.”

“You don't like blood magic,” almost accusing. “Said it had already done enough to you in your _Culminacíon_.”

“True,” nodding, Zevran waited for Lahar to come even closer. “Enough of me has been patched together from other beings for me to have a distaste for it, but the Guild employs them heavily. It wouldn't do for you to outlive me, _querida,_ if Avernus' potion changed the nature of your Taint as much as you suspect, it would be easy for that to happen. So, I had little choice but to give consent in it. I am as fit as if I were no more than twenty, but I decided against too much cosmetic improvement at the price of slaves' lives. My scars are my own, and fairly won.”

Now she reached out to touch him, a delicate finger pressing to the corner of his left eye, “I miss your lines, they were part of you.”

“Given enough years they will return,” catching her hand in his, placing a kiss on her palm. “Am I so strange to you now that you find it displeasing?” 

“No,” a small frown tugging at her mouth. “But you look so.... _young_. The man I know approached his mid fifties three years ago, but here you are, and except for the scars look like....” Lahar pursed her lips, “Like not much more than a boy. Alistair has more creases than you do now.”

Snorting as he gave a vague roll of eyes at the implication, “Tchk, you wound me, _amora_. I am still a man and am willing to prove it to you.” Silencing Lahar before she could say more with a brush of his own fingers over her cool lips, “But you have not told me why you were crying so.” Sweeping some of the glittering jewels that still clung to her cheeks away with the back of his hand, Zevran passed the other over her mahogany mane with a gentleness that most never saw, let alone suspected existed. “You know I despise when you cry, it is so unlike you. Normally you would simply smite whatever irritated you with a snap of your fingers. Has someone in a high, possibly 'unreachable' position of power done something to wound you? If so, I assure you that I can have the problem remedied quickly with no suspects, and my going rate is extremely low.”

Awkwardly, Lahar twisted to one side and leaned against him, pressing her shoulder into Zevran's chest, laying her head below his shoulder, “I had just received word that you were poised to takeover the Guild and informed that someone placed so highly would never be allowed to leave Antiva.”

“Hmm,” wrapping an arm around her shoulders to keep her pressed close, Zevran was about to lay the opposite hand on her middle, but was stopped from doing so by Lahar’s clutching his hand to her breast. “This is true, I was in position to become a Guildmaster of almost anywhere without any effort, or, with a little politicking, the Grand Guildmaster. Tempting, both were, they have their draws, yes. And if I had, there truly would have been no way for me to leave Antiva ever again if I accepted the latter, and if it were the former, well, Ferelden has no post for a Guildmaster - not enough Crows to warrant it, so I would be trapped in whatever area a Guildmaster’s seat might be gained...which would no doubt be rather farther away than I would prefer. So, I spared Alba her life, but she did not know my true reasons for doing so.”

Finally, Zevran took the time to look over his lady mage and paused. She was much larger than he remembered, particularly of breast, no matter that the dress she wore was voluminous. Gently untangling his hand from hers, he curiously went to touch her waist, only to be stopped once more by Lahar grabbing his hand.

“Don't,” pleading. “Please don't, not...not yet.”

Shifting his weight, Zevran dipped his head to catch her averted gaze, “And why should I not touch you? Has it not been....” pausing, almost reciting down to the hour how long it had been since he last touched her, “some time since I last held you? Why would you deny me re-familiarizing myself with you?”

“Just hold me a little longer like this, and then we can talk,” whispering, cheeks coloring.

Frowning, Zevran debated doing as she said, but decided against it. “No. We can talk as I hold you properly, _querida_. I have traveled too hard not to embrace you fully. I am dissatisfied with this position and am too tired to fuss with this awkward pose.” So saying, Zevran forced Lahar to turn so that he could wrap his arms around her, pulling her close so he could kiss her, then froze as he felt something hard and round pressed to his stomach that kept them separate by a handful of inches, _“¿Que carajo?”_ He pushed Lahar away by the shoulders only far enough so he could get a good look at her, taking in all the small differences, the fullness of face, gloss and texture of skin and hair, size of breast... In a _shem_ , the size of the belly would be far greater in all likelihood, but even as much as Lahar bore, it was obviously greater than her body would no doubt prefer to carry. At least, if she _were_ pregnant, which she couldn’t be, in spite of all of the evidence. Breathing, not daring to think long enough to identify what he was feeling, if it were true, or if it were false, to put the label of hope or disappointment on anything, was too much to do, “Impossible. You said it was impossible.”

Lahar fidgeted, pulling away and not looking at him as she pressed a protective hand to her belly, the pressure drawing the front of the dress tight so he could see better. “Alistair was wrong.”

Cautiously Zevran knelt, taking Lahar by the hips, tugging her with supreme gentleness to stand closer as what he felt quickly resolved and discarded the fear of disappointment, changing quickly into reverence and elation, _“Hola, mi bebe. Su padre_. You have been keeping your mother company in my absence, yes?” 

“You...you're not upset?” hesitant, afraid. “To...suddenly find out....”

Zevran quieted Lahar by laying a hand alongside hers on her stomach. “Yes, I am. I could have been here months sooner if...if I had known. To have left you in such a state, by yourself....The darkspawn, aie, _querida_. You had to fight them alone, without me? Like _this_? Yes, I am upset. I should have been here.” Looking up at her, Zevran leaned back, “There was a moment while I was in Antiva, I thought...” swallowing his guilt, Zevran admitted as best he could, knowing that of all people Lahar would understand, “I thought that you would not need me. That it might be best for me to stay away, to take my status in the Guild and be what I was made into so long ago. I...delayed when I should not have.”

“I didn't know at first, and by the time I did, there was no choice but to continue fighting,” her hand made a useless gesture, betraying further nervousness. “Wynne found out I was using magic still and forbade me from it, but I...I still had to keep fighting. Velanna did as much of the battle casting as she could, taking much of the burden from me, and Anders took over as my healer once Wynne had to go back to the Collegium to broker a deal amongst the Circles. It's not as if I fought alone completely. The others did much of the fighting, and I made the decisions, but sometimes I still had to go in person. It's only in the last month that I've been completely housebound, but Anders said he was going to slap a Qun’ari inhibitor on me if I didn't quit casting. But...but I _had_ to, Zevran.” Earnestly, desperately asking forgiveness and understanding, “What if the difference between winning a battle and losing was my magic?”

There was a strong jolt under his palm, startling Zevran, as if the child held within her body were proving that he or she was well in spite of Lahar's gambles and use of magic, “Our child seems strong and unharmed, Lahar, if that kick was any sign. Truly, _amora_ , I should have been here. I am amazed that Emille did not take you over and stop you from doing anything reckless. If I had been here, perhaps you would not have had to make such hard decisions by yourself. But what's done is done, and our child none the worse for wear.”

“He threatened it a time or two,” shrugging, mouth twisting with distaste. “The only thing he made sure I didn't do was take any lyrium. Mostly he seemed distracted, as if his attention was elsewhere in the Fade.”

Zevran didn't mention that he had had several of those unsettling visits from the dead Crow, but they had been garbled things, disjointed. And Zevran had been able to sense that Emille had to struggle to get to Zevran across the vast distance that separated Lahar and him. The spirit that Zevran had taken to calling “Crow” had imparted some information, and the Antivan found himself angry with the fact that Emille had not imparted the most important piece – that he was to be a father and that Lahar needed him.

“Zev...” voice breaking him from his irritation. “I really need to sit, I get so tired so quickly now.”

Giving himself a shake, Zevran rose, sliding an arm under Lahar's shoulders, the other beneath her bottom sweeping her into a bridal carry, “If you will open the doors, I shall do the walking for us both then.” Amending with a glance down at her stomach, “For the three of us that is.”

XXX

Zevran's exhaustion was obvious, and Lahar wanted to cast a rejuvenating spell on him, but he had glowered at her offer. 

“No casting unless it cannot be helped,” as he stretched out beside her where she sat on the bed. “I may be tired, but not so much so that I am in danger of dropping dead.”

“But you do look like death warmed over,” stroking his forehead. “You may not die of it, but you look so drained, _querido_. When did you last sleep?”

Zev propped himself on an elbow, and Lahar reveled in the sensation of him massaging her belly. “Sleep? Truly sleep? Hmm, not since I left you my dear. But the last I allowed myself a good nap was on the ship.”

“And when was that?” tangling fingers in his hair.

He attempted to sidestep, “Awhile ago.”

“How long, Zev?” tugging at his golden hair, which was far shorter than it used to be before he left – Lahar had cut the long braid off at the nape of his neck as a keepsake – but much longer than it had been once he left, hanging past his shoulder blades now. “From Denerim to here is easily a month’s travel if done at breakneck speeds, without care for mounts.”

“Three weeks,” left eye twitching in an alarming fashion, before he blinked it away. “I made use of my herb knowledge and used potions to keep myself awake and on the road. As for mounts, I have a King's Warrant and was able to change them out as needed before blowing them to lameness.”

Shocked, Lahar struggled to sit up completely straight to stare down at him, “Three _weeks_?! That's it. No arguing, you sleep _now_ , or I'll tear every hair from your head!”

“But I do not wish to, _amora_. I have much better things to occupy my time,” pressing her to lay down beside him, then slipping his hand down to her thigh. “I wish to see the changes in your body and to reacquaint myself with the sounds of your pleasure ringing in my ears. As they say, there is no rest for the wicked, and I am a wicked, wicked man.”

Pushing at his arm, “Use your hand. I'm fat, and I don't want you to see me naked.”

Lahar frowned as Zevran laughed heartily, “Fat? Fat you say? You are with _child, amora_ , and that does not make you fat. It makes you glow. And besides, what in all of Thedas could be more beautiful than a woman who is carrying new life within her? Hmm?”

“I have stretchmarks, they're ugly, and my bellybutton's all popped out,” huffing, squirming away from his insistent touch. “And I can't move around, and I'm swollen fit to burst. So...yes, I'm fat,” poking him in the shoulder. “And we're not having this argument. You're going to sleep even if I have to knock you over the head with something, since I'm not allowed to cast.”

There was a little growl, and Zevran lunged to pounce on her, carefully holding his weight from her midsection, “ _Querida_ , you are round with my child. Full of my seed. Evidence that I have lain with you and spilled in your sheath.” Lahar fought halfheartedly against the hands that kept hers pinned above her head, if she was actually struggling, he would have released them, but really, he knew her well enough to know this was simply resistance due to insecurity and nothing more. “It is proof of my virility and your desire for me that has made you heavy with child. How could I find that unattractive?”

“But...” she was cut off by Zevran's lips prying at hers, tongue invading, and all she could do was moan.

And then her Antivan was doing that _thing_ with his lips and tongue to an ear. Cursing as she twisted under Zevran, the mage tilted her head to grant him the access he so clearly desired, knowing that it was unfair that her ears would always be her undoing. He knew it too, and quite well, for it had been his delicate touch there that first had brought her the knowledge that pleasure could be had at another's touch. Until that time, Lahar had only known pain from coupling, the roughness of a Templar's cruelness to a small mage who was banned from ever defending herself against her captors. No matter Zevran's reason for that first exploration, Lahar had a weakness for him because of it, which Zevran always took advantage of if she were being “difficult,” as he would say.

“ _Mierda!_ If you don’t stop that I swear Zevran...” once more she was cut off, this time because her breath was stolen by teeth on the tattooed side of her neck.

Tut-tutting Zevran whispered as he pulled away, “Such language, _amora_. What are they teaching mages these days?”

Whimpering, Lahar sought to exert some control, to gain some leverage so she could get out from under Zevran but failed. He was just as strong as he always was, but gentle with her, not allowing her to writhe away or to roll him over. Quickly her arched back became uncomfortable, superseding the pleasure of Zevran's mouth on her neck.

Whining, Lahar thrashed, “Zev...Zev please...”

He raised himself up, a smirk twisting his full lips knowing full well he had won their argument, “ _Si, amora?_ Your wish?”

“Pillows, lots of pillows,” squirming. Seeing he didn't exactly understand, Lahar thrust her back upwards, pressing her stomach to him, “Support...my back...it...um...” Huffing, feeling suddenly, despite her arousal, awkward and ashamed, “Maybe we shouldn't. It's...it's difficult to be like this.”

Understanding dawned, and Zevran pulled away, releasing his hold, “ _Querida_ , has none of your time with me taught you that I am a most resourceful lover? Support you need, support you shall have.”

Quickly, Zevran piled pillows up after dragging her to the end of the bed and divesting himself of clothes once she was comfortable. Still uncertain, but drowning in need at the sight of Zevran's nudity, Lahar began to tug at her dress raising it to just enough to expose her sex. She had been forgoing underwear for months, as getting in and out of it was too much trouble. Zevran frowned minutely at that, and leaned over to help her remove the material ignoring her protests. She really didn't want him to see her bare. 

“Maybe later,” pushing at his hands with obvious futility while he bent over her, working the blue fabric from under her bottom and over her head. 

“Hmm, maybe now, _mi amora_ ,” unwilling to be dissuaded. “I want all of you, and I want you now, and I shall have you. Cease your useless complaints, woman, and allow me to feast upon you.”

Crossing her arms over herself, Lahar didn't want to risk seeing any reduction in Zevran's desire upon catching sight of her bareness. Warm hands landed on her knees, and Lahar felt the scalding heat of Zevran kneeling at her feet. Insistent fingers tugged at her chin, requesting wordlessly for her to look at him, but Lahar had no wish to see any possible disgust in his eyes, thinking that it would undo her. So long without his touch and his words of desire left Lahar nervous. If he had been here the whole time, Lahar knew he would have still found her attractive, but her body had changed so vastly since he last saw her, there was only the shock of the big differences between the Lahar of months ago and the one of today.

“Aie, you are lovely. Let me see your eyes, _querida, mi amora_. I have missed them,” soft caresses of one hand all over her face, the other still on her chin, the grip firming. “I know I have changed from the man you knew on the outside, but please, _mi diosa_ , look at me.”

Shocked, Lahar's head whipped around to stare at him, “What? You...you think that I...that you..that I don't _want_ you?”

There was a hint of apprehension on his face, his unlined face, and a tenseness in his youthful, toned body which was not so much different than it had been. Only his face seemed much changed to Lahar, “I have changed.” Shrugging, “I no longer look the same as I once did. Did you not find the fact that I was clearly older than you part of my appeal? That was how I thought you saw me. Older, protective, the way Crow was of you while he raised you.”

“You've changed?” scoffing. “You're not the one who looks like you've swallowed a boulder.” Nose scrunching, leaning so she could swat at his shoulder, “It wasn't your age that made you appealing. The reminders of home, of safety, of fig trees, sun baked terracotta and stucco. Not any resemblance to Emille, for there isn't any beyond nationality, gender and profession.” Swatting at his shoulder lightly a second time, “ _Idiota,_ you could have been younger than me or a thousand, and if you were the same, I would have found myself drawn to you.”

“Ah, good then,” the tension seeped away, and Zevran spread her knees. “So if my appearance is not displeasing, then do not hide from me so. I told you I wished to see the changes in you, to familiarize myself with them, for I take it I will not have you in this way for much longer, and I intend to thoroughly enjoy it.”

Knowing that there was no room for argument on her part, Lahar sighed, leaned back into the pillows and let Zevran do as he willed. He could be rather insufferable that way sometimes, but Lahar willed herself not to resist as Zevran touched her all over. First her breasts were weighed in his hands, then lavished with the attentions of his mouth. Swipes of his tongue sent tingles straight to her core. Lips tugged one of her nipples into the moist cavern, where the tip of the wet muscle made Lahar's vision spark as she started to quake. It had been Ages and Ages too long.

With a wolfish grin Zevran released the now erect nub, “Hmm...most responsive, _querida_.” Fingers sought out her entrance, teasing it, and she knew he would find her drenched. “Interesting, is all this from going so long, _amora_ , my skill, or your state?”

“All three,” gasping as two digits pressed into her sheath. 

Zevran's eyes were watching every reaction Lahar gave him, but were soon drawn to the swell of their child. Lahar whimpered as she felt him nuzzling at the stretched skin before tenderly laying kisses over every inch he could easily reach. The vision of him kneeling there between her spread knees, head bowed over the house their child lived in before greeting the world, and his worshipful kisses made Lahar’s eyes prick with tears, even as Zevran brought her over the edge with his dextrous hand. 

Lahar moaned as her Crow continued to kiss and stroke at her stomach, “Hmm, beautiful. Both of you are so beautiful. _Te amo, querida. Amo, mi bebe, suya mis amoras._ ”

“Zevran, _querido, por favor_ , please, mercy,” holding out her hands, Lahar struggled to touch the assassin. “I need you.”

Shaking while he rose over her, his hands gently sliding under her bottom to tilt her hips, Lahar braced for Zevran's usual hard, claiming thrust. However what came was the stroke of the underside of his manhood along her slit. He pressed one knee under the back of her thigh, balancing his weight carefully on the edge of the bed, freeing one of those nimble hands to run over her stomach, interspersed with more strokes of his sex against hers. Lahar moaned at his teasing, the softness that was reserved only for her making itself known.

“Aie, _pequeña mia_ , you are my life. You hold the future within you,” now Zevran nudged at her entrance, and Lahar sighed in relief. She wasn't sure she could take much more. “How I love you,” now finally, now Zevran pressed forward, crowning in a shallow thrust.

Clenching her hands in a pillow, Lahar shook, wiggling her hips entreatingly, “More, more, more!”

Zevran bent so he could lay his cheek on her breast. The stance had to be uncomfortable, but Lahar knew that Zevran never did care much about that sort of thing, as he chuckled, “Saucy minx, did you want something?”

She growled, bucking her hips at him, “ _Yes_! Unf! More, I need you deep, Zevran!”

Slowly, carefully, Zevran withdrew with agonizing delicacy and eased back in with the same frustrating gentleness. He set a pace of languorous strokes that Lahar thought would drive her mad, which they were actually doing. She was quietly mewling as Zevran tortured her, his own sounds of appreciation just as low as hers. Cursing her ungainly body, Lahar strained to pull him to greater ardor and only succeeded marginally.

Hoarse groans, sprinkled liberally with fevered words, worked themselves up from Zevran's chest as he came closer and closer to peaking. Lahar could tell, because he only got like that when he held himself back too long. Plaintive begging, even as he was the one in control was the hallmark that his orgasm was imminent. The very sound of him was pushing Lahar forward to her own piece of heaven as much as the feel of him was.

“Lahar, Lahar, I am...” a gasp only partly muffled by his face in her breasts, hips rocking in and out, “Lahar, _amora_ I am...I...go-ing...”

Generally, Lahar would let out a throaty chuckle at this point knowing that she did this to him, but she was too far gone. Head tossing side to side, sweat slicked, Lahar moaned instead, finally managing to hook an ankle around the back of his thigh, forcing him closer to her. In reply Zevran growled, and she could feel his turgid length swelling the way it did just before he came.

“I am going to...” cut off abruptly, Zevran pushed all the way home, and Lahar watched his face freeze, mouth falling open as he threw his head back, eyes shut, a moan that she felt thrum through his entire body taking the place of words.

The sight of Zevran wracked with completion, his tip pulsing tight to her womb sent Lahar over the edge, and she wailed, some detached piece of her mind aware she was mirroring his pose. Lahar swam back to reality with Zevran groaning his satisfaction into her belly as he slipped down to kneel between her legs as he had before. She only had a moment to enjoy this before he was straightening, leaping to the armoire, a hand snaking out to snatch her staff and swing it to the ready as he put himself between her and the door.

“Commander?!” Nathaniel led the charge, Anders and Sigrun on his heels, the door flying open. Weapons were brandished. At the sight of Zevran, Howe's shout of questioning alarm changed to one of hostility, “Get away from the Commander!”

Embarrassed to be caught so, Lahar still forced herself to say with as much poise as she could muster, “Nathaniel, stand down.”

The trio were fanned out before Zevran who still held her staff at the ready with clear intent to use it if needed, “I would do as your Commander orders.”

“Sigrun, a hand please?” Lahar struggled to rise so she could cover herself.

The dwarva was the first to put away her weapons and skipped past Zevran, who spared her nary a glance and allowed her to pass by, which relieved Lahar to no end. It was the other two, Anders and Nathaniel, who worried her. They hadn't even relaxed, both still standing at the ready in spite of her order -- ready to defend her, it seemed, though it was unnecessary.

Sigrun brought one of her simple dresses, which was more of a housecoat than anything else as it opened in the front and closed with a few ties, assisting her into it. “He's cute,” Sigrun whispered into her ear. “He the guy Nate's been poking around looking for information on?”

Zevran hadn't moved a muscle, and Lahar stared at his broad back as she shrugged into the blue dress, “Yes.” Raising her voice while standing with the dwarva's assistance, Lahar addressed the other two Wardens more directly, “Stand down, Warden Nathaniel, Warden Anders. _Now_ and that is an order. An official one.”

“Commander...” Nathaniel began.

Her Antivan cut him off, swinging the end of the staff so it knocked the weapons from the former noble's hands, “Your Commander ordered you to do something. And since you did not do it,” another swing, cracking the _shemlin_ over the head just hard enough to down him, “it is my duty to ensure you do.”

Anders looked ready to shoot off a spell as a retort, but held back looking questioningly from Zevran back to Lahar, “Commander, are you sure you're alright? Not long ago the serving staff informed that there was a stranger here, and as we were coming to check on you, we heard noises from out in the hall, and....”

Sighing, pinching the bridge of her nose, “Yes, I'm fine, Anders. Would you be so kind as to set a rejuvenating spell on Nathaniel? And Sigrun, please escort him to his quarters to sleep it off. As for you, Anders, I'll need your help again in a moment.”

Sigrun scooted past Zevran, reaching out to pinch him on the behind, “Nice ass! As good from the back as the front!”

Lahar couldn't stifle a laugh at that, especially since Zevran hadn't flinched in response, only winking at the dwarva, “Keep those hands to yourself, Sigrun.”

“Ohh,” there was a moan as Nathaniel started to awaken, Anders’ spell taking effect. Hands pressed to his temples, face twisted into a pained grimace, “My head...”

Sigrun wasted no time hoisting the rogue up and hauling him out of Lahar's quarters. Only then did Zevran relax, leaning his weight on the staff casually and holding out an arm to tug Lahar into his side. Lahar sighed in relief, paying no mind to Zevran's nudity as she knew he never cared one whit about anyone seeing him naked. She had always known he was an exhibitionist, so refrained from asking him to put some clothes on...it would only encourage him to be outrageous in hopes of shocking her tetchy and easily worried Wardens.

Anders shuffled, looking uncomfortable, carefully keeping his gaze off of Zevran, “What else did you need, Commander?”

“I need you to check Zevran over for injuries. He's been using a potion to stay awake....”

Beside her the object of her affections protested, “ _Querida,_ I am fine. It is nothing.”

“For how long?” all business, Anders slipped from discomfort into his healer's persona, moving to examine Zevran briskly. “And what ingredients were in it?”

The tension came back into Zevran as if it had never left, the muscles under Lahar's palm bunching, “Not long.”

“Three weeks,” Lahar supplied while elbowing Zevran to inform him of her displeasure. “All the potions I know that do that are addictive and leave lasting damage. He's also had no sleep at all for that much time, and before that probably only relied on dozing for months.”

Anders hissed, shaking his head, grabbing Zevran's chin – who allowed it with poor grace – and tilting his head back to stare into the elf's eyes, “When is the last time you pissed?”

“Excuse me?” Zevran straightened.

“Your eye is twitching, one pupil is dilated, the other is a pinpoint,” tugging at a lid, peering deeply into an orb. “And you've got a grayish cast to your skin, but the whites of your eyes are yellowish. So. When was the last time you pissed?”

Making a face, “Two days ago?”

“Wonderful, that's just great,” sarcastic, Anders began to pull magical energy to him, invoking Sight to look into Zevran's body.

Lahar knew what the mage would find, but hoped he wouldn't notice the differences between Zevran and a normal person, and only look for sustained damage. There was a small flicker in the healer's blue eyes, before they narrowed, fingers making grasping motions as he yanked even more magic from the Fade. Like a weaver working with trails of light visible only to mages, Anders twisted and twined the ribbons of magic together into a winding, spinning thing that slithered around Zevran's waist, curled up his back and sank in. This delicate sort of healing had no flashy lights and booms, but Lahar had always been able to accept the beauty of it. It was true few would ever be able to See this tracery, even amongst mages, but for someone like her, it was like watching a lovely dance of skill that only the truly proficient could master.

The only sign that Zevran betrayed of his discomfort at the magic being worked was a decrease in his breathing. Well Lahar knew that meant he was focusing on working through the agony. He always likened it to being burnt from the inside out when Morrigan worked on him or electrocuted when Wynne did it. Zevran had refused to ever tell her what it was like when she healed him, but she could guess based on the descriptions he reserved for the Wild Witch and Wynne that he probably felt as if he were being frozen alive. As for Anders, Lahar always felt as if she were being stuck by pins and needles, jabbed and sewn with energy rather than metal or bone.

“Damage report?” asking once Anders backed off, wiping sweat from his brow, Lahar waited.

By then she was leaning heavily on Zevran for support, her feet aching.

The tall mage frowned, voice clipped, “Left kidney was at maybe half function and dying. Fixed that, but it'll want watching, maybe another bout of healing. Heart was overworked, almost looked like someone had punched it. Stomach was getting ulcers, that was easy to mend.” A deep breath, continuing the list, “Nerve damage repaired from head to toe, though the left eye may still twitch from time to time,” the last directed at Zevran. “I'm amazed there was little or no brain damage. That long without sleep should have killed you. And your liver? That should have been dead on arrival. Most of you seems to be in working order, but I suggest you sleep and take nothing but liquids for a day or two before working up to some bread and broth, then vegetables. Let’s see how you handle that and maybe milk or eggs for a week before we let you near meat.”

Zevran looked as if he was about to protest, but Lahar gave him a small push, “Go to bed. Sigrun can continue to sub as second in command until you're fully back on your feet.”

“As you wish, _querida_ ,” Zevran dipped one of those little bows he did when giving in because he knew she would make it an order if he didn't do as she said.

Turning back to Anders, Lahar was about to dismiss him, but he gave a hand sign that he wanted to speak. So, Lahar withheld her sigh and motioned for him to follow her, “I suppose you should check me over, too?”

Anders accepted her excuse, “Yes, haven't done the daily checkup today. Let's see how the little imp is doing.”

Once they were in the hall, Anders rounded on her, whispering harshly, “Someone's Worked on him heavily! With blood magic!”

“I know,” Lahar nodded, maintaining the cool demeanor she was known for – even when her condition caused her moods to swing wildly, she still managed to stay outwardly calm more often than not. “It was done a long time ago and against his will.”

“Yeah, maybe the old stuff,” leaning down, arms crossed, casting wide eyed glances at her bedroom door. “But there's new stuff, and I've never seen anything like it. It's as if...”

Overriding him, “Don't worry about it, Anders. There's no helping it, and what's done is done. Let it go.”

Straightening, “I don't know if in good conscience I can do any more for him ever again.”

“Anders, you'll heal him if he needs it, as I'm unable to do so at this time,” tone brooking no argument. “You're a healer. So if he is wounded, just as you would with anyone else – friend or foe – you'll heal him. That's your duty. And may I remind you that you're a Warden and must be impartial? He is my second in command and thus your superior. You'll obey his orders just as you would mine.”

Utter distaste twisted Anders’ face, but he nodded, “But if he ever asks me to make any 'modifications' to him, I won't. Orders or no, so you tell that...that thing in there not to ask me to. And don't even bother asking me yourself.”

“Don't worry, I won't,” waving a hand at him to go.

XXX

Waking as soon as the door opened, Zevran cracked an eye to take in his surroundings -- bedroom, well appointed, smelled of Lahar -- safe. Assessment finished, he sat up and watched Lahar's rolling gait, almost a waddle, but Zevran would think nothing so uncharitable of it. Besides, it was...cute.

Grinning as Lahar swayed closer to the bed, rubbing the small of her back, “Ah, _amora_ , I could wake to seeing you everyday and never grow tired of it.”

“Eh,” Lahar made a noncommittal noise. “You'll grow tired of it. Again.”

Frowning, “You think I left for Antiva simply because I was tired of you? Do not be absurd.”

Watching as she kicked off her slippers and sat on the bed heavily, “Sorry. I'm just being cranky. Being pregnant is hard work you know. And sometimes...” she slumped, and Zevran thought she may be staring at her feet, or at least trying to, “Sometimes it felt like you abandoned me. I knew you had must have had good reason to leave, but that doesn't mean I felt any better when I woke up heaving.”

Zevran tossed the covers aside, scooting to sit behind her, slipping his legs around so that they lay framing hers, pulling her to lean against him, “ _Lo siento_ , truly I am. I would never have knowingly left you to this alone. Believe me in that if you can believe nothing else from me ever again.” Tucking his chin over the crown of her head, massaging her stomach, “But this...” stilling his hands, cradling the swell, “Would have made it even more imperative for me to seek the Crows and gain power amongst them. Enough to keep them from you and from our child.”

“I know that, Zev,” gradually relaxing. “Early on there was a team that we had to take down, but that only happened once. It would have been while you were on your way to Antiva, I think. Too soon for you to have had any impact there.”

“Mm, there have been no more? Good,” nodding and squeezing her tight. Zevran didn't want to think more about such dark matters. So, he changed the subject, “And how much did that boy say about my condition?”

She shifted uncomfortably, “He wasn't pleased. I had hoped he wouldn't notice, but Anders is the best healer I've ever known. Better than Wynne, better than me. In the future you'll have to be careful to not get hurt too much, he's reticent to heal you deeply again. He’ll do it if I order him to, and he’ll do as well as his skills, situation, and energy allow, but he’ll be resentful and shift that blame to you. It would make him difficult in the long run since he’s always searched for reasons to flee anywhere he’s stayed at long enough to be given responsibilities. Amaranthine, the Wardens here, and the people, need him too much to risk alienating him or granting him that excuse. So, I'll take over once the baby's born.”

“Ah, back to the way of things before? I find that more agreeable. His magic felt like glass shards ripping at my nerves, stabbing me again and again.” Zevran worked at the ties to her dress, divesting her of it, “Now, I do believe after that bit of spellwork, I am ready to go again....”

Lahar shrugged out of the dress, “Zev, I'm tired, and you need to sleep. Really. I just want to lie near you and feel you close by. My sleep has been terrible. I'm always too hot and the swelling makes me want to chop my legs off.”

Zevran helped her get comfortable on the bed and moved to take one foot in hand, “Then allow me to give you one of my Antivan massages. And afterward we shall sleep.”

She moaned as he set to work, “Promise? No more fighting sleep if I let you do that?”

“Promise,” bending to kiss her shin. "I shall work my magic on you, and then when we are rested, you shall work yours."


End file.
